Man on Ice: Russia vs the USA - in Alaska

THIRTY-NINE

Rake’s phone lit with Stephanie Lucas’ number. He hesitated. But it was inauguration time, which could bring in a strike on the base in just over twenty minutes. He answered.

‘Captain Ozenna. Matt Prusak. Our tracking has you at the Big Diomede base. Can you confirm that, and that you can talk freely?’

‘Correct, sir.’ Rake spoke in barely a whisper. His cover was a stack of oil drums from which he could see, facing the hangar, the white MI-8 helicopter, red medical crosses emblazoned on its sides.

‘Are you with Admiral Vitruk, or do you know where he is?’ asked Prusak.

‘Negative.’

‘Vitruk plans to launch an ICBM. We need you to confirm him neutralized or dead before the end of President Holland’s speech. That is before 12.15 Eastern Standard.’

‘Copy that, sir.’

‘Whatever is necessary, Captain.’

‘There are American civilians here, sir.’

‘If I can reverse these orders, Captain, I will. Until then, understand that civilian casualties will be far higher if this man wins.’ Forfeit lives to save lives, the concept of collateral damage that had been drilled into Rake from his first days in the army.

Rake had less than fifteen minutes. He watched the helicopter in front of him for signs of human movement. The panel just underneath the tail wing hung open and the steel ladder lay fallen on the apron. Five circular windows ran along both sides of the fuselage. A lone pilot sat in the cockpit, his gaze down on the control panel and his right hand dealing with a switch above him. He was wide open to attack, dangerously visible through the transparent panels that made up the front of the aircraft. Rake was unsure if this was the same man he had seen working on the tail.

From where he was, Rake could see only two of the windows. Henry, on the other side of the hangar, was able to check them all. He signaled that he saw no one else in the aircraft. That didn’t mean there wasn’t. Henry lay still on the ground in black darkness near the hospital entrance, ready to fire into the cockpit. Joan was with Akna and Iyaroak.

The draught from the slowly turning rotor blade snapped a sheet of ice from the roof of the hangar. It smashed onto the apron like breaking crystal, throwing chips against Rake’s face.

Then Vitruk appeared, darkening the arc of a helicopter lamp as he stepped into view, half a profile obscured by mist and light but enough for a shot. Vitruk stayed where he was, part visible, part in shadow. He didn’t walk briskly to the helicopter as he should have done once on the tarmac. He was directly facing the hangar as if he knew Rake was there, and a lightning glance to Henry who had a better-angled view told Rake why — the tautness in Henry’s face, his finger relaxed on the trigger just as Rake’s own finger was tightening to fire. Carrie was handcuffed to Vitruk’s right wrist. As she became more visible, she looked uninjured, walking upright and decisively next to Vitruk. She had on the same green parka. It was torn on the right shoulder and ripped across the left sleeve. There was a dark smear down the front.

Rake’s lethal orders smashed like a meteorite into his concentration. It beat the hell out of him. Carrie was here because of him. She would die because of him. He would have to kill her. He tried to think straight. Instead, a world flashed in front of him without Carrie, bleak, black, apocalyptic. No color. He saw himself going mad like Don.

Vitruk kept walking towards him. He was wearing full dress uniform. He wore a blue-gray fur hat with a red star at the front, its flaps dropped over his ears, and medals adorned the chest of his greatcoat. He carried a phone in his right hand. As he moved closer, his thumb ran up and down as if he were stroking it, moving slowly from bottom to top.

Vitruk had positioned Carrie so that Rake could not make a clean shot. He could see no way of killing Vitruk without risking Carrie… without killing her… If he didn’t shoot Vitruk and Carrie now, they would all be dead from an air strike on the base in a few minutes. What was the difference? And if he allowed Vitruk to go ahead… The White House Chief of Staff’s voice bounced violently around his thoughts — The casualties will be far higher if he succeeds.

Vitruk stopped, lit by the helicopter lamp, midway between the hangar and the aircraft. He pulled Carrie to his side. Rake could see her more clearly now. Her face was masked, her eyes goggled, her hands gloved, the hood of her green jacket pulled over her head. Strands of blonde hair blew about on either side. Her head was turned toward Vitruk. She looked nowhere else.

‘I know you can see me, Ozenna.’ Vitruk’s voice was loud and confident. ‘I can guess what your orders are. To kill me, whatever the cost. But the missile that your bosses in Washington are so worried about is activated in two ways.’ He held up his free hand with the phone. ‘One is by pressing a four-digit code on the dial pad of this phone. The other is losing my pulse, which the phone is monitoring through this strap around my wrist. Just to be sure you understand, Ozenna — if my heart stops beating the missile will launch. So, if you kill me to save Carrie, thousands and thousands more innocent people will die. I’ve arranged it like this to relieve you of the dreadful choice your country has forced upon you.’

Rake stayed quiet. He looked across to Henry, who was locking in a rocket-propelled grenade. Rake signaled for him to hold.

‘Are you hearing me, Captain Raymond Ozenna?’ said Vitruk.

Rake said nothing.

Vitruk continued. ‘The American attack will come in just over ten minutes. Dr Walker and I are flying in this helicopter to our airbase at Egvekinot and then by plane to Moscow. Carrie will be thanked for her work and awarded a medal for her bravery by our State Duma. Then she will be free to go wherever she wishes. She will be proud. She is the daughter of loyal citizens of the Soviet Union. You will stay here to die in the American strike or you can surrender and come with us to Egvekinot, where you will be tried for multiple murders under the jurisdiction of the Chukotka Autonomous District.’

Rake heard a mechanical click as Henry moved forward the safety catch.

‘All this may be a technicality, of course, if your government chooses to go to war.’

The helicopter lamp illuminated Vitruk like a theater spotlight. The moon flooded the rest of the apron. Cold seeped through Rake, making him shiver.

‘None of this is your responsibility, Captain.’ Vitruk peeled down Carrie’s mask. ‘Tell him, Dr Walker. Tell him not to be such a fool.’

Carrie turned towards the hangar. Rake could tell she couldn’t see him, nor did she look for him. Her eyes were steady, like he had seen them a hundred times before. This was Carrie, who knew her own mind. She was telling Rake to stop Vitruk, just like she had insisted he escape from the school gymnasium. Escape. Just do, it Rake. Whatever the stakes. She knew the cost.

There was only one way to negotiate with Vitruk, only one way he could deal with his locked mind, and that was to strip away his motive. If Vitruk wanted to be President of the Russian Federation, if he craved to be lauded in Moscow, if his end goal was to be hailed as the Russian hero who took on America, then he needed to live to see it. Rake had to cut off his lifeline, expose his weakness, then move in and kill.

Rake raised and dropped his forefinger to signal Henry. A whining stream of flame left Henry’s weapon and a rocket-propelled grenade drilled through the helicopter’s cockpit. Its explosion tore the fuselage apart, sending out a reddish-white inferno in a blast that threw Vitruk and Carrie to the ground. Rake ran forward, weapon drawn, heat on his face, his path obscured by black smoke. Vitruk was in vision, gone, in vision again, on the ground, a pistol held against the left side of Carrie’s head.

Rake stopped, his eyes locked on Vitruk’s face. Carrie looked up, her focus on Rake. A smear of soot ran down from her right eye. Blood scarred across her chin.

Racked with pain, Carrie felt the burning heat of the explosion and Vitruk’s pistol pressed hard against her temple. His crushing weight trapped her.

‘Stay still,’ he ordered.

Spreading flames cupped around the aircraft. ‘The fuel tank,’ she gasped.

‘It’s safe.’ Against the roar of the fire, there was a calm in his tone. She turned enough to see that the wind was blowing the flames away from what used to be the cockpit. The tail which held the fuel tank was skewed but untouched by fire. Rake stood midway between the wreckage and the hangar, stock-still, frozen mid-stride, his face etched with dread and determination.

‘So, you’ve decided to kill us all, Ozenna,’ shouted Vitruk. ‘You’re murdering the woman you love.’

‘I can get us out of this.’ Rake took a step out of cover.

‘How? We’re now waiting for your cruise missiles,’ said Vitruk.

Rake raised his arms above his head, part peace-offering, part showing off his automatic weapon. ‘Hear me out, Admiral. Please.’

‘You didn’t let my men hear you out before you murdered them.’

‘I’m a soldier, I was doing my job. Dr Walker is a civilian—’

‘So now you listen, Ozenna. In a few minutes, your bombs will tear Dr Walker’s limbs from her beautiful body. They will rip through her organs and their fire will burn her alive. Or, on your word, I’ll be kind and shoot her now so she will die without pain.’ His finger crept inside the guard to the trigger.

Slowly, so Vitruk could see his every move, Rake squatted and put his gun on the ground. He stood up, eyes locked onto the Russian. He brought out a phone from his pocket, holding it up in full sight. ‘I’ll open a line to Washington.’

‘To do what!’ yelled Vitruk. ‘Russia will never surrender.’

‘To bring in a helicopter to get you out, and we’ll head back to Little Diomede.’

‘Then what?’ Vitruk’s face twisted; the hatred and blame fermenting inside him for years were finally finding a way out.

Carrie’s thoughts raced. Men like Vitruk were poisoned by anger, unable to feel anything outside of themselves. One wrong word, one wrong movement, and Vitruk would kill and feel nothing. She could never change his mind. She could not overpower him. The more Rake talked, the more Vitruk’s fury boiled.

‘Let me make the call.’ Rake edged forward half a step. ‘I can—’

Vitruk fired into the air. A flash of yellow and blue flame leapt out of the chamber, and the roar of an exploding pistol cartridge crashed through Carrie’s eardrum. Rake stopped, hands raised, finger curled around the phone. The warm pistol barrel rested back against Carrie’s temple.

‘What can you end, Ozenna?’ said Vitruk. ‘More American bombs on more villages. More sanctions. More killings. More bullying. More of your fucking democracy. Never again will you strip Russia of her dignity.’

‘I’m moving back, OK?’ Rake took a step. ‘Take the weapon away from Dr Walker. Let’s wind this down.’

‘If you make that call, she will die.’

Rake’s finger stayed away from the keypad, but unexpectedly the phone lit, casting sudden light on his face. Carrie felt Vitruk stiffen. She braced for the pain and shock of a bullet ripping through her skull.

‘That was not me,’ Rake said. ‘It’s a message to this number. It’s not me. OK?’

He was pleading, showing weakness, because he cared for her. She was dead anyway. Now. Five seconds later. Five minutes. What did it matter? She was getting in the way of what Rake had to do. She needed one try to get inside Vitruk’s damaged mind, something that would cut through to reach whatever it was that made anyone human, however poisoned that humanity might be. The cold would prevent any of them lasting too long. Or an air strike. Neither Rake nor Vitruk were patient men. It was now, or not at all. One go, she told herself. One chance to help Rake. To give him that second of opportunity.

Vitruk pulled her to her feet, wrenching her arm in its socket. She scrambled up with him.

Rake shouted, ‘The message is from Washington. You need to—’

‘I need to do nothing!’ screamed Vitruk. ‘Tell them they are dealing with Admiral Alexander Vitruk, the man who—’

Carrie yelled across him, ‘The man who killed Larisa, his own daughter!’

Vitruk’s pistol butt crashed against her head, spinning her toward the ground. The cuff bit deep into her wrist. Her vision spun. Gray-black shades of darkness turned into a sea of white. She hung off him, unable to stand, unable to fall. He raised his arm for another blow, but she had got to him. His face was creased with uncertainty. She shouted, ‘You are a man who can’t stop murdering children and mothers because he was so drunk his own little girl is dead!’

He hit her again, twisting her head against her neck. She had reached his blackened heart. The blow was fast and ferocious. It left her head enveloped in pain, fighting to stay conscious. Then numbness took over pain. Her vision was gray, no colors. The helicopter flames danced a dirty glaring white. Snow on the granite hills lay lifeless. The buildings were gray under a gray sky. Her hearing was gone. Or the wind was howling so loud she couldn’t hear. She lost feeling except for a draining, sapping cold. The next blow would kill her. She turned her head to look further, to find Rake. Where was he? She must speak to him, tell him not to blame himself. A new pain shot through her. Not a blow. A nerve in the neck. A muscle. Something torn. What was the name? Suboccipital? No. Trapezius? She should… Her numbness faded. Her wrist hurt. The hard cuff. Vitruk pulling against her. It had only been a second. Maybe two. So many thoughts. So much undone. No time to live. A cold wash of hopelessness coursed through her as she waited for the last lethal blow.

A flash. A single gunshot crack. The tug at the cuff, tearing into her skin, pulling her where she couldn’t go. Uncontrolled. Vitruk jerked like he was dancing. Carrie’s senses rushed back. Vitruk stumbled, his legs gone, pulling her with him. The icy concrete rushed up toward her as they went down together. He hit the ground hard, and Carrie fell on top of him, arterial blood jetting from his neck warm on her skin.

Vitruk was shot. He was dying. Muscles twitching. The gush of blood became a dribble. Body warmth chilled. The face contorted in the way that unexpected death rips away confidence.

Then Rake was there, just like when she first saw him, with no other purpose except to make her safe. He didn’t speak. No smile. No reunion. This was the soldier she knew from the car bomb in Kabul. Rake placed the back of his hand against her neck, feeling for a pulse. Then, focused and fast, he unpeeled the heart monitor from the Russian’s wrist and attached it to Carrie’s. A pulse was a pulse. Her raised heartbeat pumped a signal to the phone that would keep the missile in its silo. Her breathing slowed. She tasted cold smoke from the helicopter fire. Then Henry came into view, moving carefully, checking each step, each inch, for hidden danger.

Rake recovered Vitruk’s phone. ‘Hold this,’ he told Carrie. They were his first words to her, not a question, but an order.

He stepped back, leaving her with Vitruk’s blood-soaked body. ‘This is Captain Ozenna,’ Rake said into same phone that had nearly killed them both. ‘The base is clear. Admiral Vitruk is dead.’